


Inhale, Exhale

by Oceanbreeze7



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arc Reactor, Arc Reactor Angst, Arc Reactor Issues, Asthma, Brain Damage, Deaf Clint Barton, Hurt Tony Stark, Orphanage, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6897106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oceanbreeze7/pseuds/Oceanbreeze7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Arc Reactor did so much more then what everyone had realized.<br/>Or maybe they never thought to question how a metal cylinder could exist inside the sternum of a human being without causing any lasting damage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Or<br/>The story that questions a little more on how the Arc Reactor would actually affect the biology of a human being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale, Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story was created fairly easily and worked on in school when I should have been trying to pass math.  
> This is also the first story I'm directly showing my close friends.   
> So best of luck to you guys. I hope that I've somehow managed to impress you or at least gain your admiration in something I do.

 

 

_Hypoxia is defined as diminished availability of oxygen to the body tissues._

_Signs include dyspnea, rapid pulse, syncope, and mental disturbances such as delirium or euphoria. Cyanosis is not always present and in some cases is not evident until the hypoxia is far advanced. Discoloration of the skin and eventual ulceration that sometimes accompany varicose veins are a result of hypoxia in the involved tissues._

_The tissues most sensitive to hypoxia are the brain, heart, pulmonary vessels, and liver._

 

 

The Arc Reactor, although technologically _ingenious_ and far more superior than most examples of modern medicine, was large, gaudy, and originally made from the snippets of any salvageable rubble and debris available.

The first model did its job well, the second and the following models had minor _inconveniences_ on his physical well being. The next generation of reactors, carefully constructed and stored in secure locations in every house (call him paranoid), were considerably more improved.

The reactors themselves worked smoothly as were intended. The shrapnel didn’t wriggle itself a hair closer, and his blood wasn’t filled with toxic metal.

One would say that Tony Stark had never felt better in his entire life.

 

 

The Arc Reactor had a diameter of exactly 2.7 inches.

Circumference of 8.48 inches, although that fact was hardly important.

The surface area of what was exposed to the open air was just upwards of 6 inches, if one included the rivets and raised ring around the border of flesh and metal.

A few people had asked him on occasion the precise calculations or actual size of the metal lodged in his torso. He generally rattled out the information anyone could comprehend before delving into mathematics he was aware they couldn’t comprehend. They generally nodded, albeit dazed, and forgot what answers they understood or what questions they had ever asked.

 

(The Arc Reactor was roughly 7 inches deep once he managed to get Pepper’s hand measurements.)

(Which calculated to roughly 42 inches in total area gouged from his chest.)

The Arc Reactor was _fine,_ it kept him living, and breathing for the most part.

(He had already realized that a 16 oz pop bottle was 28.876 cubic inches.) 

( _He had 23.272 fluid ounces carved from his flesh and bone.)_

 

Tony was _perfectly fine._

 

 

The first thing Tony did in the months of his return from Afghanistan, was to see renown retired surgeons and doctors around the world- out of the practice itself and unable to spread the word to others of their profession.

They had all looked the exact same and asked the same questions.

(Horrified, and they always asked _‘How are you alive?’)_

Well Tony Stark was a genius and he wouldn’t let a chunk of metal kill him when he could have plenty of other opportunities to. Preferably around whatever harem he had found that day, or death by fine scotch.

After he started hearing the same words and the same expression on every medical professional he visited, he just...stopped going to any.

He started to practice boxing- something to try and regain the sheer muscle mass he had lost in his captivity. It was a long laborious process that was neither enjoyable nor helpful to his quickly emerging problem.

He began to carry around small canisters of Albuterol in bright canisters much too peppy for his tastes. The thought of being seen with- with a _rescue inhaler_ was laughable in his opinion. It would help fan the raging fire about whatever PTSD or medical disability that obviously meant he was unfit to lead his own business.

It was amusing in all honesty. He had quite a few chuckles at it.

(It hurt a bit to laugh as well but he wouldn’t ever admit that.)

 

 

The sensation of flying was amazing. It was somewhat disorienting, the sudden shift of gravity and the accompanying tug and pull on his stomach made adrenaline pulse. His heart sped in a frantic arrhythmic pace. His head hurt and his vision was distorted and warping with the sudden rush of elevation. JARVIS supplied fresh oxygen through the helmet- still rudimentary but it took away the burning bite of slight suffocation.

He’d have to work on that.

 

 

The armor obviously improved over the years he worked on it and all of the advances in technology (most of them he created) that slowly emerged.

The joints were improved and slid with fluid movements after grinding and locking once fighting Vanko and Hammer’s drones. The helmet increased with a tighter seal and more interactive night vision after baiting Obie into the sky. The weaponry was increased and altered from gunpowder and small projectiles into heat and repulsor blasts once fueled by the new core nestled comfortably in his chest.

Each improvement left less and less work for his body to mechanically do. The armor responded with the slightest touch, shifted as he did, and responded faster than he could think on occasion. The weight of it used to be unbearable- it still was heavy mind you, but with fairly regular exercise regimes and assistance from a few professionals (Happy wasn’t a boxer no hard he tried) it was...nice. Relaxing, not anywhere close to the wheezing pressure that ached his bones and in his teeth of all places.

Obviously his condition (‘What condition, I don’t _have anything!’)_ did not increase over time ,although its slow descent into actually requiring active medical aid was far off and most likely never going to occur with how stubborn he was.

Years after the implementation of his new heart and new heart _condition,_ it was obvious that others would find his quirks amusing and just dismiss them as his personality. Snarky, rude, and surprisingly optimistic behind the cool facade of indifference.

The new residents in his humble abode was awkward and uncomfortable for the longest time. It never settled to a level of familial awareness or endearment, but it certainly didn’t resemble the mixture of cautious behaviors and even more cautious people.

The public most likely thought that the Avenger group snuggled down and watched movies together, or attended meals with the squabbling captain and the egocentric billionaire at each head arguing over who should open the turkey. It just wasn’t... _like that._

Each person had their own floor, not specifically catered to them, mostly because Tony hadn’t actually known anything about them prior to actually inviting them into his home. They had accepted, and given how large their living arrangements were, he didn’t often actually see them other than a few traces of paper taped to the wall asking for specific groceries, or permission to paint a room on their floor a different colour.

Tony honestly just didn’t _care._ They were fully grown individuals, the only thing that linked them together (quite literally) was the large private elevator anyone could access with the right code to JARVIS.

Tony had not built a separate lab for the resident Gamma Scientist, regardless of how intelligent or how impressive the man was. He couldn’t just demolish a floor to place in structurally precarious machinery or technology- it was the basic rules of architecture. Tony hadn’t invited the man to his own personal lab, well below the ground layer of the building (in case of explosions or any damage to the floor), nor the higher workshop where he regularly did minor touch ups on any damage sustained in flight or battle. He didn’t have any of the technology that would interest the man, so he wouldn’t have been itching to visit anyways.

JARVIS kept him up to date on any problems or requests for immediate aid that wouldn’t suffice on a single sticky note on the hallway outside the elevator on his floor. Clint broke his shower once- nothing as ridiculous as shooting the shower head or jamming twigs down the drain. They were _grown adults_ , why did the public expect that they had strange nerf battles or communal scrabble nights? Clint’s shower head only clogged, the water filtration on that floor having malfunctioned and the buildup of metal particles stopped the wait from passing through the way it should have. Tony didn’t care for such mindless work (although he was perfectly able to fix it himself), he called in one of the builders and plumbers who had actually _built_ the tower and pointed in the right direction.

In the office buildings below his personal leisure floor his employees (or rather Pepper’s) worked on computers and filed forms and paperwork. Above them the resident Avengers of that day slept or strolled around their floor doing who knew what.

Natasha did suggest that more security be implemented at the front doors of the tower, in case any bomber or threat attempted to topple the tower to harm the now famous ‘heroes’.

Tony had agreed because it was a logical request and placed a few scanners at each entryway alongside permanent security who scanned each employee to allow them inside.

 

 

Life went on, and nothing overly changed.

A few months later (okay to be honest it was nearing half a year), Clint had actually shown the first incentive to go out of his way to meet the man.

The former Shield Agent actually tried to arrange a meeting with Tony through JARVIS- as if taking a small portion of Tony’s time actually required that he be scheduled in.

It was a kind gesture, but left Tony more uncomfortable than any other emotion he could fathom the archer had intended.

Tony had JARVIS call the other down, deciding to meet on the open floor of the communal living room. It was neutral territory and frankly Tony wasn't comfortable with almost anyone in his lab.

Clint emerged from the furthest left elevator (the right one used to access the lower floors where the SI employees worked, for the odd occasion Pepper wanted to speak to an individual in a more open and welcome atmosphere than the offices.)

Clint was wearing casual clothing, sweatpants by some sport brand Tony didn't recognize and a generic shirt. He spotted a thigh holster for a sleek looking pistol. His hair was messy, but overall he looked more relaxed than Tony.

Clint walked quietly across the room, sliding onto the opposite chair across from the couch Tony was sprawled on. Tony had set a cup of coffee on the table between them.

“ _So,”_ Tony drawled, giving one sweep of his arm over Clint’s entire body although not specifying a specific spot, “JARVIS said you had a question for me, Robin Hood?”

Clint to his credit didn’t even blink at the nickname.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his voice was smoother than Tony had expected. Then, to Tony’s carefully reigned horror, Clint reached up _into_ his ear and casually tore a large segment of his tragus. Tony flinched, jaw sliding slack as the archer _twisted_ , and tore the cartilage flap out of his right ear.

Tony squished back on his chair when the archer casually tossed the tan lump onto the coffee table between them. Tony swallowed quickly, trying to push back the entity irrational gag reflex.

“They aren't working as well as before,” Clint shrugged, looking unfairly calm as he kicked his leg over the chair’s armrest, “I was uh-”

The archer suddenly shifted from practiced relaxed into something hesitant and restrainedly frustrated. The sudden self-loathing was nostalgic and made Tony’s throat misfire for entirely different reasons.

Now looking at the cartilage on the table between them (and trying not to look at where it was missing on Clint’s face), Tony managed to see the slightest glint of something metallic.

He picked it up carefully with calloused fingers. The well worn scars took away some of his touch receptors, but it was impossible for him to not notice the coldness and familiar metal.

“What is this?” He asked, unable to determine precisely what the device was, not to mention why it was stuck on Clint’s _head._

The archer looked uncertain, gazing at him with a partially broken expression. What looked like a port- some sort of connection center for the device was actually poking through Clint’s skull.

“It’s..” He trailed off, voice rising to a higher pitch. “I’m- my ears-” his voice wavered slightly, “I'm almost completely deaf.”

Tony blinked.

“Oh.”

His bland response made Clint even more uncomfortable.

Tony awkwardly looked back at the (hearing aid? Microphone? Speaker?” In his hand and rolled it around thoughtfully.

“SHIELD made it.” Clint blurted, wringing his hands slightly, “you always say your stuff is superior.”

‘ _Oh.’_

Tony smirked, leaning back on the couch once more while still holding the small device, “oh sure! Do you have any spares or just these? I’ll have JARVIS run a system diagnostics and see what we can do. I may need to do a few X-rays, or at least see what those morons did,” Tony tapped his own ear to signify the obvious implant, “but I'll take a look.”

Clint looked relieved and Tony began to wonder just how badly the archer was impaired.

“So,” Tony started again, setting the little nub on the table before scrambling to know any sign language he knew, “do you know what this means?”

He clicked his wrists together and looked at Clint expectantly.

“That's ‘rock’?” Clint asked, voice rising in evident confusion at what Tony was trying to accomplish.

Tony slid his arms together, hands resting at opposite elbows. His right hand curled into the classic rock fist-pump position while his left hand opened and closed.

Clint’s lips twitched slightly, “bullshit.”

Tony grinned.

_‘Maybe he isn't so bad after all.’_

 

 

Clint dropped him off a little package a few hours later. Wrapped with masking tape and a ribbon made out of a broken bow string, tied around an empty box of Milk Duds. When Tony opened it expecting another one of the small fleshy nubs, he jumped when an entire network of wires slid into his palm.

It was like he tore the little plug out of his head and gave it to Tony.

It had the fleshy nub, the plug in and a series of wires and strange electrode ends and wires further in. Tony balked at the fact the fistful of an electrician's toolbox was resident in Clint’s _head._

Then again, he wasn't one to talk.

JARVIS quickly pulled up the information on what exactly a Middle Ear Implant was. While Tony was reading about the relatively new procedure, his AI was running diagnostics scanning over the small device.

When they both had finished, Tony was damn determined to improve this thing to the point Clint felt almost normal again.

(He had to send his plans and talk with a few SHEILD medics about how exactly the implant worked. Tony may have earned doctorates, and technically he _was_ a doctor- he didn't want to perform surgery. Ever again.)

A few weeks of hard work and stalling his other commitments (Pepper had been furious before Tony explained what he was doing. She instantly rescheduled and offered any help she had), Tony sent his new invention to the SHIELD medics.

A week after that, Clint headed onto the Helicarrier for his regular checkup. He didn’t come back until a few days later, thick bandages over his skull and wearing an _atrocious_ hat.

He cried a little bit with a grin so big Tony felt his Arc Reactor rise in temperature slightly.

Clint kept his distance instead of going in for a hug, he mouthed silently but very clearly ‘ _Thank you.’_

Tony smirked and with no hesitation he twisted his fingers and signed back _“You’re welcome.”_

 

 

It wasn’t that difficult to learn sign language for Clint. The hardest part was getting his jerky movements into something even remotely smooth. The stiffened joints and hard calluses didn’t want to bend the exact way that most people’s hands could.

Tony got ear infections so often, it was probably worth his while to learn sign language anyways.

 

 

Nine months, post one month of recovery time for Clint (who was so ecstatic he actually got into the habit of singing or humming again), Natasha approached him.

He had expected her to, so it wasn't a surprise when JARVIS announced she was in the elevator heading to his personal floor.

He met her there, arching one eyebrow as she strode out calmly and expressionless.

“Can I borrow your car.” She bluntly asked, not at all making it sound like a question.

Tony blinked.

“What for?” He inquired, turning and striding towards the terrace that protruded over the city.

“There's a charity event.” She briefly stated, sliding into a handcrafted wicker chair, “I want to go.”

Tony blinked a couple times, “for a mission?”

“No. I want to go.”

Natasha was well adored on the Avenger team. Males gawked and ogled her in combat, helping their publicity more than Tony would confess. She also was an inspirational role model for the younger generations with her independent strength.

“Alright,” Tony nodded. Natasha twisted, aiming to get up and leave.

“ _But,_ ” Tony added, seeing her tense instantly, “we’re doing this my way.”

Her lip curled slightly in frustration, her eyes sharpened but before she could coldly slice her way out, Tony lifted one hand.

“I’m guessing this is important to you- oh stop that!” Tony scoffed at her bristling, “I’m calling my tailor and you have no say.”

Natasha paused. “Stark, I have plenty-”

“Of dresses from SHIELD missions,” Tony interjected, “but Black Widow’s dresses aren't Natasha’s dresses.”

Natasha’s eyes widened the smallest degree.

“So!” Tony chirped, “we’re going to get a dress and it is going to be _damn well_ amazing. Then we’re going to have your hair done, uh what else- nails!” Tony snapped his finger and pointed, looking deathly serious, “are your nails already done?”

Natasha wordlessly lifted her hand, any remnants of a manicure was destroyed from chipped polish and knife scrapes.

“Oh girl, those are disgusting.”

“Do you want your hair to be three inches shorter?” She asked dryly and rhetorically.

“I’ll get one with you,” Tony soothed, flashing his nubby nails and grime caked cuticles, “because you are going to look _amazing.”_

 

 

Natasha seemed entirely overwhelmed by the quick progression of events afterwards. She wanted to go to the charity later that night (Tony scolded her on how tight the timeframe was going to be) in one of the more lavish buildings and ballrooms. Tony actually thought the building w ridiculously gaudy but then again, he was the one who out his name in glowing letters on the top of a skyscraper.

The gala event was for orphaned children who had directly suffered from the attacks on Manhattan. Situations like this always angered Tony, because half of the people showing up wouldn't care for the cause and instead would show for publicity or to flaunt their new trophy wives. Tony wasn't going to ask Natasha why she wanted to attend, but the least he could do would be to come as well and keep the salivating senators or rich assholes away from her.

Tony's personal tailor instantly cleared his schedule when JARVIS made the call. He had made a few dresses for Pepper when needed, and was well known for his impressive speed.

“Hello!” He greeted excitedly when Tony walked in. Natasha peered around cautiously although entered the small boutique with smooth footsteps. “Ah! You must be my model for today!” He greeted with a large grin.

Natasha offered a small thin smile, “Natasha, it's a pleasure.”

“Jon!” He smiled, beckoning to the small platform, “No shoes if you would not mind, Miss.”

Tony crossed his arms and watched as his tailor managed careful measurements with practiced movements.

“36, 26, 36,” Jon whistled, “Those are rather extraordinary.”

Natasha watched him as the man fussed over varying shades of the color red- Natasha’s preference.

“Swedish accent?” She guessed calmly.

“My parents were immigrants,” Jon offered, “I lived here for all my life.  Nothing is worse than those snobby foreign fashion designers,” Jon gave a shudder, before pinching his nose and pursing his lips, “ _ah! Mademoiselle!”_

Natasha offered a small chuckle as the nasally off key French accent prompted her to quickly respond with a heavy lilting accept, “Ah, _Monsieur,_ I ah, I am flattered.” She drawled back, perfecting the slight pause and vowel annunciation.

Jon stared at her with a startled expression before laughing loudly, “Oh! Mr. Stark bring her more often!” He chuckled, winking and once more measuring around her through and shoulders.

They left twenty minutes later, there was still eight hours until the gala and Jon assured he’d have the dress finished, although he would needn't after the gala to reinforce the seams for future use.

Tony didn't draw attention to Natasha’s small but genuine smile, although he did stare a bit.

 

 

Hair was done next. Natasha had cropped her hair short for battle missions and agent work. Tony could totally see the benefits, although Natasha didn't say no when he brought up the idea of extensions.

The extensions were carefully attached with tweezers by six individual hair stylists working at the same time. Once attached, everything was dyed red (a specific shade she picked out with a tiny smile) and then carefully styled into a braiding crown around her head.

It was elaborate for sure, but looked reliable enough to last a few more hours. The entire process took longer than Tony would have imagined, but he occupied his time electronically signing forms emailed to him from Pepper.

After Natasha’s elegant crown and curls were finished, she lounged entirely relaxed with two people working on her nails and feet.

(Tony wasn't joking about the manicure. The poor woman looked hopelessly at his calluses and scarred fingertips. Natasha may have cracked a smile as Tony tried to explain why his hands _didn’t_ need a file and _‘Whoa there, no no I don't need a sandpaper Dremel- ‘)_

They huffed and bustled with small files and cuticle clippers. They eyed his purplish nail beds with fascination before hurrying with neutral colours and glossy top coats.

They scuttled around after, Tony had Natasha drop him off at the tower ( _‘take the car, no! Really! I’ll grab the R8- oh just take it. You’ll knock them dead.)_ so he could snatch one of his many suits and get ready.

Clint gave him a small wave and a friendly nod as he passed by all dressed up.

“She likes fancy tuna!” He called lazily after him.

 

Tony arrived first to the gala, he had expected so since Natasha’s dress would take longer to be sewn into.

The press was wild, throwing questions everywhere regarding SI, the Avengers, where his outfit came from (he enjoyed the aghast faces when he said he grabbed the first clean thing he found), and why he was still waiting outside the main doors.

He smiled softly to himself when he heard the low purr of his Spyder pull up with its tinted windows.

Tony internally cackled at his great selection of car model.

Natasha slid out of his car with the impossible ability of making getting out of a car look _good_.

Her expression was calm, and her gait in those thin heels was impressive.

Tony almost whistled when she tossed the keys at the valet without looking.

“Ma’am.” Tony greeted, politely offering his arm. She took it, walking carefully as the trail of her dress almost floated over the stone steps.

“Jon really pulled it off,” she murmured under her breath, eyes positively glowing under the perfect mascara, “the dress is wonderful.”

Tony snorted, escorting her into the main room where the other guests glanced up at their entry, “nah, Natasha Romanoff looks _stunning._ ”

She _blushed._

The night continued, people watching her in awe and a few brave souls actually approaching her. Tony did what Clint said, and snagged a small tray of fancy tuna ceviche to her delight.

Someone had actually brought along a little group of orphans, leaving Tony seething. They looked scared, all prim and proper in dresses and little suits.

Natasha saw them before he could say anything. He was too far to hear what she said, but the host (who had been using them to show his ‘generosity’), paled and scampered away.

Natasha lowered herself, her dress trailing out behind her like something regal with her crown on her head. Tony swiftly walked closer, ready to intervene if anyone made a move towards her.

“-too. I used to dance ballet.” Natasha was telling the small group of girls, “maybe sometime we could practice together. Would that be okay?”

The youngest girl hid her face in another’s dress and nodded.

“I don’t have my shoes anymore,” Natasha was talking in quiet soothing sounds, “so I'll have to buy new ones, I'd like to buy some for you as well.”

Tony quickly looked away, blinking quickly.

He honestly hadn't meant to intrude months back- JARVIS found all files for the Avengers just so he could learn more about his teammates. Like allergies or medical conditions.

He found it ridiculous that they hadn't mentioned Clint’s ears but they so callously wrote that Natasha-

Tony had to walk away as one of the little girls started giggling with bell like tones.

Tony was going to buy that woman a _goddamn orphanage_ if she couldn't have a kid of her own.

 

Natasha thanked him at the end of the night quietly. Tony shrugged it off and instead pulled out the pending request form for the change of ownership on his Porsche Spyder.

She smiled at that.

She nearly cried when he casually mentioned that there was a million dollar donation to the orphanage, and a building waiting to be bought that would be _perfect_ for an orphanage.

 

 

Tony started stocking up blankets around the workshop. Enough that when Dummy knocked over the pile and. Stranded with loud squeaks and whirring noises of confusion.

After that Tony just started to turn up the temperature to degrees that he found more comfortable but apparently were too hot for other people. (Pepper can shut her mouth.)

The few occasions that he did touch someone's hands or brush against them with his fingers, people complained that he had cold hands.

He noticed that if he pressed his fingers together until they turned white, it took nearly a full minute before the blood filled back in the normal amount.

(Paper cuts took a concerningly long time to heal not. He just carried around super glue now)

 

 

Tony didn't like working in the gym. He didn't like people seeing him practice boxing or hitting a bag as many times as he could.

He didn't like it when they watched him _wheezing._

It happened a few times, stupid mandatory group sessions to test out their abilities as a team. The only problem was that they couldn't use any weaponry, which essentially meant the suit since it was a great big weapon.

So it was an hour of Tony being beat up or just running to keep up with that enhanced soldier.

And then the _wheezing._

Steve had glanced at him concerned, face stupefying blank. Oh, of _course_ he recognized the sounds of asthma, Tony had heard enough stories about how the man was practically a cripple prior to his serum.

(Then again he _was_ a cripple.)

(And Tony didn't have asthma)

 

 

The next thing Tony did was improve the air circulation system in the suit. The problem was, that the suit really didn't have that much space once Tony was in it.

He did what he could, he wasn't sure if the air circulation actually was improved, but he altered the vents so they blew new air directly over his nose and mouth.

He added extra copper wiring through his gauntlets, when activated they would send small currently and hopefully keep his fingers not quite so numb as they seemed to always be.

 

 

Clint and Natasha started hanging around and including Tony where they could more often.

It wasn't anything like the cuddle puddles that the fan girls drooled for. They invited him when they were heading to the shooting range on the Helicarrier, and a few times Tony actually tagged with.

The air was thinner when the Helicarrier was flying, Tony opted to wear the suit until safely inside the walls of the aircraft carrier. Even then the sudden change of pressure made his ears pop and fingers go numb once again.

The dizzy was just from altitude sickness maybe, or possibly motion sickness.

Regardless, those new cable-arrows could do with some major improvements.

 

 

Bruce asked him out of the blue one day (via JARVIS) if he would be willing to look over one of his papers for publication. Tony didn't know where the data had come from, he likely was working in a nearby lab facility or had contacts with someone who had the tech, but the paper was really interesting.

He had also used SHIELD calculations on the Tesseract, although hadn't directly named it as the power source. Best to keep the public away from any sort of alien energy.

Tony had JARVIS scan the paper for any small errors, minor punctuation problems that the doctor had likely overlooked in favour for the complicated calculations and scrawling graphs.

Tony had a look after, reading over the energy with mild interest. He wasn’t the type of physicist to work primarily in this area of study, but undoubtedly Bruce could help with a few of his projects. Tony personally delivered a tablet set up with a few projects linked directly to JARVIS. If Bruce was hanging around and was bored, the least Tony could do was to add a little food for thought.

Bruce looked surprised but cautious, hesitantly taking the thin tablet as if Tony would retract his hand and proclaim the offer a trick. Instead Tony kept his grip firm and assuring as Bruce took the device from his fingers.

“Thanks.” Bruce added timidly, voice wavering slightly as he suddenly clutched the tablet close to his oversized shirt.

“No problem!” Tony beamed, trying to seem as welcoming as he could. “Hey, do you want a fish?”

Bruce blinked, “A...fish?”

“Yeah, like a goldfish.” Tony explained, hand sweeping around the room without any general direction, “For your Zen garden or whatever. Or a koi, do you want a koi?”

Bruce looked overwhelmed, “Er, no it’s...fine. This is fine.”

Tony smiled and politely clapped Bruce’s shoulder, the latter twitching under the touch.

Tony retracted quickly, just bordering on cautious while still remaining friendly.

Instead, Bruce frowned and gently set the tablet on the nearest table. He reached out, carefully and slowly taking one of Tony’s hands in both of his.

“You’re freezing.” Bruce blinked, blurting it out in his surprise as he rubbed his fingers over Tony’s palm and wrist, “Your pulse is rapid too.”

Tony shrugged and Bruce carefully pinched and tugged the skin on the back of his hand.

Tony hissed slightly at the twinge and Bruce quickly let go, blinking at Tony.

“What was that for?” Tony frowned, withdrawing his hand with a frown.

“You’re dehydrated and cold.” Bruce bluntly stated, rubbing one eye with a fist, “And your pulse is fast. Your capillary refill time is really long too.”

Tony stared with a deadpanned expression. “I thought you weren’t that kind of doctor.”

“I lived in Harlem. Don’t come running to me if you need stitches, but it doesn’t take a surgeon to know the basic signs of dehydration or-” Bruce frowned and looked at Tony’s slightly darker fingers, “Is that vasculitis or something?”

Tony tucked his hand behind his back and gave a minor shrug, “It’s no big deal Brucie. Already got treated for it.”

Bruce shrugged and turned back to the tablet. They hadn’t interacted enough for the man to feel that it was his right to intrude on Tony’s general health. They barely had even talked outside of this and the Tesseract mission.

Tony turned and left, blinking quickly and reflexively against the slight blurring on the corners of his eyes. It always seemed to fade.

 

 

If Tony sat up too quickly on the rare occasions he slept, his vision would leave him and his head would whirl with pulsing throbs and bright lights.

 

 

JARVIS alerted that he had a ‘personally assigned mission’ appointed to him from SHIELD. He was planning to dismiss the request and casually ignore it until someone physically stormed into his house to shout at him- but once JARVIS explained that the mission was to teach the resident Capsicle to type on anything not a typewriter, Tony just _had_ to help.

Steve Rogers was awkward at best, and a child at worst. He had a large clunky old machine with a manual crank (oh god help him) and a large stack of blank pages ready to be inserted into the dinosaur.

Tony made a noise similar to a dog being struck by a car.

After half an hour of explaining why exactly laptops were more superior to the mechanical ancestor, as well as the uses of instantly uploading or emailing files instead of (Tony shivered) _mailing it,_ Steve was tentatively tapping on the clicking buttons.

Tony was rambling away while his fingers flew over the keyboard with a soothing tapping noise.

In the company of Tony (As well as Tony actually working on those long overdue reports for SHIELD), Steve quickly gained his rhythm and was tapping on the keyboard with a small smile and a little bit of speed.

“Getting quick there?” Tony teased, arching one eyebrow and glancing at Steve’s screen all the while he was typing something entirely unrelated on his own.

“Look at yours!” Steve floundered, halting his typing to stare at Tony and his quick speed.

“This?” Tony asked, partially confused. “Oh I used to be much faster.”

Steve stared in obvious disbelief.

“It’s true!” Tony argued, “JARVIS!”

_“Sir’s typing speed at its greatest efficiency was estimated 89 words per minute. Currently it has regressed to 69 words per minute.”_

Tony’s nose wriggled as he managed a sly grin.

Steve spluttered at the innuendo, genuinely looking taken aback by the suggestion.

Tony snickered and instead of commented further, he reached out and shifted Steve’s hands so they would slide over the keys slightly easier.

Steve nodded his thanks.

 

 

JARVIS wouldn’t tell anyone over the last shred of his programming; his creator’s speed and efficiency in the workshop had deteriorated 21.72% since his return from Afghanistan.

He doubted even his creator was aware of such a fact.

 

 

Tony was watching a video of some idiot putting inferior phones in a blender along with glow sticks and plastic children's toys, when all the sudden his left eye went black.

Well, not _exactly_ black, but there was a portion of his vision where everything was blurred and incomprehensible to actually determine what he was seeing. The outer left side of his left eye had distorted vision, and only a slight impairment had leeched over to the righter side.

“Huh.” he stated curiously, before getting back to work.

 

 

Over a year since the Avenger’s operation was initiated, they had finally gotten to the comfort level of all people gathering on a single floor to watch something together. Given, it was an important sports match or something along the lines- Clint trying to explain the rules to   
Steve over his excitement while Tony clicked his fingers on some schematics needing tweaking. Natasha was evaluating the movements of the players with small sighs of frustration right before a player fumbled or misstepped, and Bruce was in the kitchen scrounging for popcorn or something else to munch on.

“Is there any bread on this level?” Bruce asked quietly from the direction of the small kitchen, having found a bag of cold cuts Tony never remembered buying or having stocked.

“Yep!” Tony chirped, knowing full well the other wouldn’t find where he stocked up his fruit for smoothies (one of his true weaknesses).

Tony set the tablet to the side, lethargically flopping the device next to him. He sprang up,

energetically jumping upright from his calmly seated position-

His head _hurt._

He blinked, eyes lolling around unfocused as one hand slid up to clutch his pounding and aching skull.

“Whoa-”Tony blinked, focusing on- Steve?

“You with us?” Bruce asked, suddenly placing one hand against Tony’s wrist.

How did- wasn’t Bruce just in the kitchen? And why was Steve-

“Are you carrying me?”Tony blurted, wincing at how loud his voice sounded (but there was some sort of twisted muffle quality in it), “What are you doing that for?”

He saw something wriggling on his left, and turned his head.

Clint had been wiggling his fingers, sliding further and further into his field of view- he had a prominent frown and looked at Natasha who had a similar expression.

“You passed out,” Bruce explained, pinching Tony’s fingers and looking more distressed at what he found, “Steve, elevate his legs more.”

Tony squawked as he was nearly hanging by his feet. His shirt slid, bunching around his throat as his arms flailed free from Bruce’s grasp.

Bruce’s breath hitched, and Tony couldn’t understand why through the blurry haze.

Then he felt something warm- warm on his _chest._

He twisted, the sudden movement kicking Steve in the chin and forcing himself to drop to the ground and lower his shirt.

“ _Never,”_ He hissed viciously, trying to hide just how dazed he still felt, “ _Touch that!”_

Bruce looked ill, and had to shake his head and swallow quickly, “Tony- that thing is- I mean I knew it was in you but it’s like…” Bruce paled, “ _In_ you.”

“Love to meet the Doc that made that.” Clint whistled under his breath, blinking quickly, “It looks like that hurt.”

“‘S fine “r’now.” Tony grunted, one hand rubbing against his eye as the other tugged his shirt down even further.

Clint frowned and tilted his head slightly, “how does that even fit?”

Bruce shuddered, “I'm not sure I want to know.”

Tony lethargically flopped, shifting and shuffling into a sitting position before instinctively hunkering and hunching forward.

Steve _of course_ recognized the position, “hey, you alright there?” He lowered himself to Tony’s level and awkwardly patted his shoulder.

He was in Tony’s blind spot- Tony had to turn his head a ridiculous way to actually see the soldier in his frame of view.

“He can't see you,” Natasha noticed, voice quiet as she slid down to kneel in front of Tony, “Both eyes or just the one?”

“His eyes are focusing though,” Steve’s eyebrows furrows as he peered into Tony’s iris once again, “Are you sure?”

Clint snapped sharply and suddenly in Tony’s peripheral, only the sound alerted him to how close Clint’s hand had gotten.

“Stop!” Tony whined, swatting half heartedly in Clint’s general direction. Bruce instead caught his hand and pressed his fingers gently to the pulse point on the underside of his wrist.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Bruce noted, looking more and more unsettled, “I think we should call this in.”

Natasha smoothly stood, gently picking up a cell phone (Clint’s) from the table nearest them.

“ _No!”_ Tony whined, squirming and trying to get up, “No I don’t need a doctor!”

“You’re hyperventilating,” Bruce stated bluntly, gently pushing him back down further, “Maybe it’s an anxiety attack?”

“Looks more like asthma attack to me.” Steve jumped in, frowning at the lack of wheeze, “Although it’s not as choking sounding.”

Bruce looked puzzled and Clint wasn’t faring any better. Natasha talked quietly yet sharply on the phone where someone had picked up. She talked a bit longer over Tony’s frantic breaths before clicking it off and informing them that a quinjet was on the way.

Tony hunkered forward slightly, bending strangely and gasping deeply. Bruce jolted.

“ _Oh.”_ Bruce exhaled, looking partially pleased yet majorly horrified, “ _Oh,_ Steve get his shirt off.”

Tony squawked, flailing his arms against the soldier who was trying timidly to help.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Natasha murmured, sliding a small penknife out of her shoe to slice through his shirt with some minor hacking. The cloth was torn away leaving Tony shivering and aghast at the treatment.

“My shirt!” He shouted, blinking frantically and shaking his head slightly.

Then Bruce was _poking him._

Tony flinched back, lifting one leg to try and hit the other man’s groin. Bruce backed away, holding his hands defensively yet looking more and more grim.

“He’s had ribs and part of his sternum removed,” Bruce grimaced, “The casing for that is lodged deep.”

Tony crossed his arms and clutched his chest, hiding his reactor from view. Adrenaline roared and joined the hazy cloud that was his conscious thought.

“Removed ribs?” Steve looked rather alarmed at the thought, glancing down at Tony’s bare chest once again, “Is that a common thing?”

“Science hasn’t come that far, Cap.” Clint murmured, snapping slowly around Tony’s face once more before shaking his head, “His vision has gone on the sides.”

“ _What?”_ Steve looked plainly alarmed.

“WebMD has taught me that means he has cancer,” Clint’s face was impossible to read, “It’s _always_ cancer.”

“Stop scaring him,” Bruce scolded, rolling his eyes and glancing at Tony’s eyes once more, “It’s _not_ can- _Tony!”_

Tony slumped forward in Steve’s grasp and lay prone except the quick inhalation and exhalation of his chest.

“The quinjet has five more minutes,” Natasha crisply added, sliding down to her knees and taking Tony’s head between her hands, “I’ve never seen this before. JARVIS- has this happened before?”

The room quieted before the AI activated, slow and calculating compared to its normal swiftness.

_“Sir has never been in respiratory distress to this degree.”_

“It’s happened before?” Bruce sharply asked, some serious sliding over his expression, “JARVIS, what medical conditions does Tony have?”

_“I am afraid that is classified, Doctor Banner.”_

“ _Classified?_ Is he taking any medications?” Bruce tried again from a different angle.

_“I am afraid that is classified, Doctor Banner.”_

“Who is his doctor?” Clint tried instead, looking patiently at the ceiling.

_“I am afraid that is classified, Agent Barton.”_

“He wouldn’t have stuff classified unless he has something to hide,” Natasha cursed frustrated, “JARVIS is it something that you are worried about?”

_“I am an Artificial Intelligence-”_

“JARVIS answer the question,”

_“Yes.”_

Clint swore.

Steve stood, his back bending awkwardly as he hoisted the genius up into the air in an awkward carry. Tony’s head lolled backwards and hung limply.

“Tell the jet to not turn off its engine, we’ll run to it.” Clint snapped over his shoulder at Natasha, who admittedly already had the phone to her ear.

They hurried towards the elevator, filing in and anxiously waiting for the shoot to ascend to the rooftop. Once opened, Bruce shuffled quickly next to Steve while still trying to monitor Tony’s mysterious condition.

“He’s not breathing,” Bruce whispered, looking even more terrified.

“I got this,” Natasha mumbled, sliding between the mutant and the unconscious Tony, before pinching the man’s nose and starting CPR.

“Combat training,” Clint explained with brisk grunts, “Mandatory for all agents. Never know when your partner or target needs medical aid.”

The quinjet appeared in the distance. It was most likely going at full speed, yet the time it took for the transport to arrive was the most nerve wracking. The tiny speck grew larger and larger until only half a mile away from the building.

“The jet won’t have enough room for all of us and medical attention.” Steve murmured, the others already knowing the unfortunate fact.

“You two go,” Clint nodded to Steve and Bruce, “You’ll be most useful.”

Steve shook his head, “I’m not- I'm not close enough to him. He won’t be happy to see me.”

“You,” Natasha nodded to Clint, “He’d be most comfortable in a medical wing seeing you.”

Clint looked unconvinced although obliged and readied into position once the jet was close enough.

The archer jumped, hands scrabbling on the jet’s side panels before grasping the small lever for the hatch to open. The bottom opened slowly, descending downwards while the jet lowered to only a meter above the ground.

Clint clambered in, waving Steve forward as medical professional jumped out with a gurney and cables already attached.

“It’ll take too long for the jet to have to rise again after landing,” Natasha shouted over the sudden roar of the wind, “Get him strapped in!”

Steve stumbled through the movement, the summoned aid quickly strapped down Tony and applied an oxygen mask. One help gave Bruce his hand, and helped the latter up into the jet.

Clint gave a sharp nod towards Steve and Natasha as the wires retracted and Tony was hoisted into the belly of the ship.

The door clicked shut, and the jet shot off with urgency unmatched.

Natasha rubbed her eyes, tears having formed from the biting wind the jet’s thrusters blasted.

“Now what?” Steve’s voice sounded much too hoarse from just yelling.

The quinjet faded away into the small speck once more.

“Now, we wait.”

 

  

The Arc Reactor had a diameter of exactly 2.7 inches.

The circumference was 8.48 inches.

The surface area of what was exposed to the open air was just upwards of 6 inches

The X-ray said that the casing itself was 7 inches deep into his chest.

 

 

Clint wasn’t a genius, but even he could do simple algebra.

“Ribs 3,4,5, and 6 on both sides sawed and- and _cauterized,”_ Bruce seethed, “The body of his sternum completely split- his xiphoid process _inches_ out of place-”

“They moved his heart.” Clint rasped out, staring at the X-ray plastered to the glowing screen, “Someone picked it up, and _moved it.”_

The Arc Reactor was large, and it was stationed securely in the clawlike hold of the sawed ribs and hole-punched sternum. Hearts normally were nestled just slightly to the left of someone's chest- Stark’s was shifted entire inches out of alignment with a network of arteries and veins wriggled and moved like an infant tried to shove a handful of spaghetti into something they shouldn't have.

The door clicked opened behind them- assumedly the same doctor they saw on the other side of the glass just minutes before. Bruce turned to look and give a customary handshake to the SHIELD medical doctor. Clint didn’t bother turning, he and Doctor Sarvo were old acquaintances.

“So, we have him hooked up to a ventilator and on an anticoagulant.” The doctor started, “Once he’s stable we’d like to do a MRI scan.”

“Why are you asking us?” Clint mumbled softly. The Doctor blinked calmly.

“We have on Mr. Stark’s file that no medical procedures should be conducted unless given express permission by specific individuals.”

“And _we’re_ on the list?” Bruce blinked in surprise.

“Well, not specifically. The Avenger team was listed in extreme emergencies in which may be life threatening or directly correlated to an after-battle injury.” The doctor patiently explained, “Given that you called from the tower where you reside, it was interpreted as an after-battle injury, as the headquarters for your team is stationed there.”

Bruce frowned, “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Clint sighed and rolled his eyes.

“ _Anyways,”_ The doctor started, taking out a small notepad from his lab coat pocket, “We’ve seen some organ failure located in his liver-”

“Like _that’s_ a stretch.” Clint muttered.

“-after that we were a bit confounded as to what his ailment was. One of our doctors noticed he had severe optic disk swelling- explaining the vision damage you mentioned,” he nodded to Bruce, “The severity of it has led us to diagnose Papilledema.”

“And the fainting?” Bruce prompted.

“And _this_ is the confusing bit. Generally, fainting is due to low blood pressure, Mr. Stark’s is relatively high, expected, but his pulse rate is still incredibly fast even unconscious.”

“His blood? Have you analyzed it?” Bruce asked, sounding more and more worried.

“We have, and he is not anemic as we expected. He actually has a very healthy RBC count. We would like to administer a test for his Blood Oxygen saturation, given that this isn’t a medically mandatory test in the protocol for emergency situations, we require permission.”

“Given.” Clint clipped out, looking back through the glass where Tony was lying prone and pale on the bed. His fingers and toes looked purplish. “Do it fast.” 

 

 

“It’s called Hypoxia,” Clint spoke over the phone, “It’s a disease when you don't have enough oxygen in your blood. Normally its only temporary- like when you’re drowning or carbon monoxide poisoning. The Doctor says that he’s seeing signs it's been minor but increasing for a while now.”

_“How long is ‘a while now’ Clint?”_

Clint paced, taking fast steps in his own SHIELD issued room on the helicarrier. He had cleared it out long ago, but something about the privacy it offered was very calming. “He says that maybe the deficiency started years ago, but the hypoxia kicked in maybe four years ago with its effects.”

_“Which are?”_

“Cyana- Cyanosyis? Cyan-something, it’s when your fingers get blue or the wrong colour from lack of blood. And a really fast heartbeat to try and pump as much air as you have. The doctor wants to send in a camera to check out Stark’s veins, he said that you can get ulcers on your vessels when the cells start to die.”

_“Brain damage?”_

“He said it’s possible, but if it exists then it's been over a long period of time.”Clint heard Natasha swear something bitterly and genuinely on the other side.

“He’s- he’s not pretty,” Clint confessed, blinking surprised when his throat felt clogged, “They have him on a ventilator and some sort of strange blood transfusion thing. But they can only fix so much damage, you know?”

_“...Clint,”_ Natasha started with a soft and sad tone of voice, _“Clint, none of us knew. Just because he opened up to you first, it doesn’t mean you should have seen it.”_

Clint’s jaw closed with a click.

_“Tony’s best friend, the CEO, Pepper, she didn’t know. I’ll tell her after this so you don’t have to. How’s Bruce?”_

“Not green,” Clint offered with a dry chuckle.

_“Then let’s keep it that way. I’ll keep prying with JARVIS and see what protocols or what the exact words were that Stark made it not talk.”_

Clint hung up without saying anything else.

 

 

Natasha cracked JARVIS the day that Stark woke up.

Apparently the suit had been upgraded early on to increase airflow to the front panel areas. She only found that out when she had asked the schematics of what was altered to the Iron Patriot suit, gifted to Tony’s friend Rhodey.

Tony had been aware of his situation and chose not to tell anyone about it.

Clint couldn’t really find it in himself to be upset.

 

 

Tony said nothing. Absolutely _nothing._

He didn’t talk, which was uncomfortable given that his entire persona radiated snark and charm.

His complexion was sickly pale, an almost purplish tinge against his skin while veins and arteries twisted below his skin.

His eyes were glazed thickly, locked in a static glare that left Bruce speechless.

“Are you feeling better?” Bruce asked awkwardly, instincts itching to leave the room.

Tony stared, the room silent except for the mechanical grinding of the ventilator through his nose, and the monotone beeping of the artificial blood oxygenation device. It was going to leave a nasty bruise in his inner elbows.

“The doctors say that you’ll maybe have to come in every few days because your blood doesn't have enough oxygen.”

_Beep…...beep-ch-kurnkkkkkk- beep_

“Pepper is really worried,” Bruce offered, “she seems really nice.”

_Beep….beep-_

Bruce swallowed uncomfortably. Morbidly, he wondered if the reason the man's chest was rising and falling still was only because of the ventilator.

Bruce left quietly.

 

 

SHIELD discovered through a few tests on his file compared to his current ability to perform. Along with a few brain scans and minor puzzles, his diagnosis was confirmed with minor brain damage.

It wasn't the sharp brain damage, that leaves you drooling after a quick car crash or a dare to dive into a public swimming pool. It was the slow looming damage, the knowledge that every day it took just a little bit longer to understand what JARVIS had said, that every day his fingers slowed and experiments bordered just a little bit more on danger.

The board of directors jumped a little bit too quickly at accusing that “ _Tony Stark does not have the mental capabilities to be developing and driving the most advanced machinery of our age!”_

Tony knew that he wasn't supposed to have heard the conversation.

(He also knew that he wasn't supposed to agree that he _was_ damaged goods.)

 

 

“ _Mr. Stark- Mr. Stark can you please cooperate-”_

_“You want me to draw and label a clock! Why would I even bother with that?”_

_“Mr. Stark it's just mandatory. Could you please draw 4 O’clock?”_

_“I have JARVIS tell me the time.”_

_“Mr. Stark, which handle on a sink turns the water warm?”_

_“I have an AI sweetheart, none of my sinks have handles.”_

 

 

_(He couldn't remember.)_

 

  

Tony had survived such a long time with damaged lungs, he had gone on missions and battles- he had _flown a nuke into space._

Nick Fury knew Tony very well though.

Tony signed the legal agreement binding him to receiving medical attention five days a week and constant use of oxygen masks in his sleep.

The word got out to the populace as well.

 

 

_“Iron Man on the Iron Lung?”_

_“A new type of breathalyzer for Playboy Tony Stark!”_

_“Not enough hot air in Stark’s head?”_

 

 

They forced him to resign from the Avengers.

(It wasn't that big of a deal. He wasn't ever that close to the group anyways.)

(He had just hoped that the only good thing he had would stick a little longer before being snuffed out.)

 

 

_Tony was fine_

 

 

He packed up all of his suits, all of his machines and sent them west to a new house of his creation. Nestled in the valleys of the Rocky Mountains (who would ever look there?) he doubted he would ever be bothered.

He was _sick_ of the bustle and the constant treatment. It wasn't like Cancer where people already knew the steps, where doctors knew the exact time when to start talking about hospice and already had ‘ _my condolences’_ rehearsed like a hallmark card.

Tony was just _tired_.

 

 

If people were sure he was going to die (not now, maybe a week later, maybe five years later,) then he was going to die in  _peace._

A nice little home in the Rockies sounded perfect to run away to.

 

 

The avengers were criticized, battles tore the country with bombs and plasma and whatever other aliens joined the chaos. Senators and the government argued against the unrestrained freedoms of the group.

The Helicarrier fell, he hadn't heard of many survivors.

Then again they were spies so he wasn't that concerned.

Few things actually managed to make Tony worry now.

 

 

“ _Sir? Is the wine to your tasting?”_

Tony shrugged, glancing down at the glass of dark red wine.

He was leaning against the balcony railing overlooking the valley where his house was built. It was scenic, quiet, and the sunset and sunrise was something _breathtaking._

“It’s fine, Jar.”

There was a small pause as a slightly chill draft drifted over his shoulders.

_“And...yourself, Sir?”_

Tony’s half lidded eyes blinked slowly.

“I’m fine.”

 

 


End file.
